


Ink Me Down

by crspnwah (walkydeads)



Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Alternate Universe - Tattoo Parlor, M/M, PWP, Tattoos, but with like a lot of plot, idek, lots of wrestling references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-15
Updated: 2016-06-15
Packaged: 2018-07-15 05:24:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7209569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/walkydeads/pseuds/crspnwah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean really wants a tattoo but all the local artists are either retired or just plain weird. Luckily,  his buddy Seth has a business card for a parlor a few towns over with really good artists, the proprietor being one Roman Reigns. Dean thinks he likes the pain of getting a tattoo, but maybe he just likes that Roman is the one giving it to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ink Me Down

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in one big stretch, excuse name mix ups, tense drops, typos and other errors. Also, i created a lot more of this universe than I ended up using. If you guys would like to see more, I'd love to write it.

Dean struggled to get out of his car for the third time that day. His legs ached after three hours of disuse, and he glared up at the storefront before him to make totally sure he was in the right place. 

By the Reigns, Ink and Percings, the decal on the front window boasted, the name wrapped around a logo of a tattoo covered hand that held what Dean presumed were horse’s reigns. He shuddered. Taste for getting tattoos and the occasional bar fight aside, Dean wasn’t really into anything too freaky, and he desperately hoped Seth hadn’t sent him to some weird BDSM place as his idea of a joke. 

There were two tattoo parlors in his town, were being the operative word. But Dean wasn’t too keen on going back to the first - aptly named The Viper Room - after the Wonder Woman tattoo he’d gotten from them ended up looking more like Captain Crunch than an Amazonian babe. The guy had apologized unsympathetically, saying he really only knew how to draw snakes, and that he’d be happy to cover his blunder up with one. Or a few. He also offered to recompensate Dean with his body, which was around the time Dean just picked his money back up and bolted (not that the dude was unattractive, he was just weird as hell).

He still stopped by the place, but Creepy Snake Guy was the only one working and seemed way too happy to see his car in the parking lot, so Dean pulled out before the guy could make it to the front door and headed to the second place. 

He’d actually gone to Deadman’s Tattoo to get Wonder Crunch covered up the first time he went. A quite blonde woman named Michelle did the piercings, and a quieter old biker type named Mark did the ink. 

Dean had admittedly been a little drunk when he went to the Viper Room, so the theme and placement of the Wonder Crunch tattoo was iffy at best to begin with. It was weird having this old dude hold and work on his upper thigh for four hours, but he couldn’t complain about the end result. He’d weakly asked the dude to fix it, he didn’t care how, surprise him but just do SOMETHING. Mark had just chuckled and got to work. 

In the end, Captain Wonder Crunch Woman had been transformed entirely. Not - as Dean imagined - into a pinup babe or a motorcycle or skull and crossbones, but into a shield, two swords behind it, three dice set to one seemingly etched into the metal of the front of the sheild, a banner with the name ‘Ambrose’ emblazoned on it completed the picture. It was far better than Dean had expected, and he was a little taken aback.

“I looked up your family crest when you made your appointment. Figured you’d need something fairly big and detailed to cover the botch. Hope you don’t mind,” Mark told him, officially speaking more than he had since their introduction, “I know you said you wanted to be surprised, but I can fix it if–”

“I love it,” Dean interjected, “I’m just disappointed it’s on my stupid upper thigh, now no one will ever see it.”

The work WAS good, but he also paid through the nose for it, splurging almost 400$ to cover up his past poor judgement. The price point was just about the only reason he went to The Viper Room first, but was truly relieved to be heading on to Deadman’s in a matter of minutes, only to be shocked and a little heartbroken when he found that what once had been a tattoo parlor was now a burned out husk of a building.

Immediately, he called Seth, the bartender at the bar he was currently bouncing at, and admittedly his only friend in this stupid podunk town.

“Did you know Deadman’s burned down?”

“More like it was burned down. Mark’s weirdo brother torched the place while Mark and Michelle were still in there. Wanted to collect on the building’s insurance since they bought it together some years ago. At least, that’s what I heard.”

Dean felt a bit of worry gnaw at his stomach, “They were still inside?!”

“Oh, no,” Seth corrected gently, “I mean, they were when he started the fire, but they got out okay. Mark said he’s still collecting on the insurance and retiring, though. Came by the bar earlier today. Why you so worried about it getting burned down?”

Dean sighed, feeling stupid and selfish for trying to do something so spontaneous after all that had happened, “Just wanted to get some ink.”

There’s a small commotion as Dead realizes Seth’s still at the bar, trying to get one of the daytime drunks to settle his tab. “How far away are you?” He asks Dean, loudly and abruptly, his implication clear.

“Less than five minutes,” Dean replied, “I’ll be right there.”

Sure enough, Dean’s very presence seemed to calm the drunk guy, and as he called a cab for him (while very obviously blocking the door), the guy magically produced the credit card he was claiming to have lost while Seth had Dean on the phone earlier to settle his tab.

“Austin needs to fix the damn computer system so we can open tabs before all these people get drunk and surly, instead of having to squeeze the money out of them at the end,” Seth complained, covering his eyes with one hand. He slid Dean a shot of Jameson for his troubles, which Dean downed without even flinching. “Oh, but about your tattoo troubles, I have a solution.”

“What would that be?” Dean asked with some trepidation, halfway expecting Seth to pull out a makeshift needle gun of his own, or offer to do it prison style. He was pleasantly surprised when Seth just slid him a business card across the bar.

He flipped it over. It was very detailed, listing the services provided at By the Reigns, the store hours, and the location. The business card alone was really well designed, which gave Dean pause as he decided whether or not he should trust Seth’s usually dubious judgement. Then he took a second look at the address and sighed, “Seth, I appreciate it, but this place is three hours away.”

“Maybe,” Seth shrugged as he started wiping the bar down where the drunk had been, “But I’m told it’s very worth it.”

Dean sighed again as he thought about it. He’d been saving up for a new tattoo for a while, and this was his only day all the way off for the next two weeks. It may be a hassle, but it was a hassle he signed up for a while ago, and it felt very much like it was now or never. “Will you at least go with me?” He asked meekly, giving Seth his best puppydog face.

“I’d love to,” Seth said, sounding sincere, “But I’m working a double. Your girlfriend called out. Again. I swear, Austin needs to quit hiring girls just because they’re pretty.”

Dean scrunched up his face involuntarily, “Renée is not my girlfriend.”

Seth just laughed, “I know that. You know that. Not totally sure she knows that, though. This is the forth time in a row she’s called out when you had the day off.”

“I guess that’s at least another reason to skip town for the day,” Dean grinned, trying for optimism.

“Now you’re talking.”

So this brought him to By the Reigns, a interestingly designed building in a rather hipstery town three hours north of where Dean Ambrose called home, and he admittedly liked this neighborhood a bit more than he should. The windows were large and tinted, it looked like there were multiple tattoo chairs with privacy walls and even private rooms from what he could tell. It was early evening on a Wednesday yet they had clients, which Dean took as a good sign. After only the barest hesitation, and after stretching his embarassingly aging knees for a moment, Dean pulled open the door and let himself in, an old school cowbell tied to it signalling his arrival.

“Hello!” A cheery, British, and unmistakably female voice called out from the back of the shop, out of his line of sight, “Be right with you!”

While he waited, Dean took in his surroundings. Three of the four chairs in the main room were occupied by people getting ink, the artists all deep in concentration. 

One of them was a sour looking man who somehow managed to combine an undercut and a man bun, tattoos of various colors running down both arms to his bandaged hands, some of his fingers taped together in what Dean had learned from Mark was an old school artist’s attempt to ward off arthritis as he completed an infinity symbol tattoo with apparent disdain.

The second chair is occupied by a woman getting a tramp stamp of - admittedly beautiful and detailed - angel wings, given to her by an older but still exceedingly attractive female, a redhead with sleeves of tattoos all her own, her lips pursed in concentration.

The third is a dude getting some girl’s name covered up - Dean feels an unwanted pang of sympathy at that - tears literally streaming down his face as he does so. His artist is a chubbier guy with short cropped brown hair and a well defined beard. He looks so clearly uncomfortable and at a loss that Dean’s sympathies immediately transfer over to him.

Dean tries not to oggle any of them, but luckily it doesnt take long for the aforementioned British girl to appear. She walks out, a girl with a reddened lip and presumably fresh piercing following her as she lectures her client abot the importance of cleaning and rotating her new lip ring. 

The cowbell sounds again, and the British girl - incredibly attractive and insanely pale - turns her attention to Dean and smiles wide.

“May I help you? Put a few new holes in you, perhaps?”

For a moment, Dean just blinks, taken aback. “Um… what?” He says finally.

She just laughs, “I’m Paige,” she says, reaching across the counter to shake his hand, “I’m By the Reigns’ resident Body Jewelry Technician. Which is just a fancy way of saying I pierce stuff. So, what will it be today? Nose? Lip? Tongue? Nipple? Or… maybe something a little more risky?”

Dean takes a step back, feeling like maybe this WAS a gigantic prank Seth was playing for his own amusement. But then the girl’s face falls.

“You’re here for a tattoo, aren’t you?” 

All Dean can do is nod.

She sighs, shaking her head, “I never get to have any fun. Well, that’s alright, you wouldn’t want me anywhere near you with one of those needle guns, trust me. Let’s take a look at the trusty old appointment book, shall we?”

“Sorry to disappoint,” Dean says finally, almost hesitant to speak, “I didn’t realize you guys would be so busy.”

“Not your fault. You probably didn’t know. It’s because, well… you see that lady behind me? Her name is Lita, and she’s really good at watercolor style tattoos. Something she did went a little viral on Instagram, and we’ve been booking left and right ever since,” she sighs again, “Well most of us anyway.”

Dean waits politely for her to find the day’s date in the appointment book, and then listens agonizingly as she ticks off everyone’s names.

“Lita is booked well into next month, and I don’t think you wanna wait that long. Punk is booked until next week, and Kevin has an opening tomorrow, but it’s just a thirty minute slot, so it’d have to be either a consultation or a really simple piece. Roman’s out on break now, but he’s booked up until Friday,” she looks back up at him, looking genuinely apologetic, “Want me to pencil you in for one of the guys sometime next week?”

Trying not to let his frustration bubble over on an innocent victim, Dean tries to be rational about it. He could always ask for a day off in a few weeks and make an appointment, that way he could be sure he gets what he wants and the best possible artist. But, as stupid as it sounded, he loved doing this for the spontenaiety of it all. He didn’t want to have to anticipate a specific idea or painstakingly decide what he wanted, he just wanted to go get it. Admittedly, this was probably to blame for his lack of relative success in life, but that never really bothered him. He didn’t want to have an existential crisis. He just wanted a stupid tattoo.

Before he can open his mouth to say 'never mind, forget it,’ the cowbell dings again and a very loud man walks in in the midst of a conversation.

“Okay, well listen, I know my store has been increasingly popular due to the work of one of my artists. I can understand that you want your work done here because of our reputation, and we would greatly appreciate your business,” the man sighs.

Dean turns arond to sneak a peak at the fourth artist, also apparently the owner of the place. First thing he noticed was how tall the man was and that he was about twice as broad as Dean himself, every bit of that being muscle. His deep voice suited his frame and has a sort of calming effect, even as he chewed out a potential customer. He was kind of… well… hot, Dean couldn’t help but notice. And not in the vaguely unhinged way Creepy Snake Guy had been hot. This guy was comparable to Fabio, only more real looking, and yeah, somehow, hotter. The long black hair pulled into a ponytail, full sleeve of tattoos, dusky skin and blue eyes made for a damn good combination.

Not that Dean was gay or anything. 

“I just need you to understand,” the guy said flatly, as Dean belatedly continued to eavesdrop, “That at this rate, we will either have to bar you from making appointments, or start charging a cancellation fee every time you do, as this is easily the seventh time you’ve… I understand that it might be an issue of money, and I sympathize, but if that’s the case I really must ask that you make sure you have the finances available before you make an— yeah, well fuck you too, asshole,” he says into the phone before hanging up and shoving it into his pocket, taking a deep breath before he turns and addresses Paige in a much calmer tone.

“If you would, please cancel my 630 appointment, and any other follow up appointments for any of us with a man named Matt Hardy.”

“Finally,” Paige said under her breath, gleefully taking a sharpie and scratching out the appointment block. When she looked up, she seemed to remember Dean, and looked between him and the owner for a moment beforw speaking up again with obvious trepidation, “In that case, uh… could you take a walk-in, Roman? Please?”

“Yeah, Roman,” Dean added impulsively, “Please?”

Roman sized him up for a moment, crossing his arms, “You know we’re all booked up, right? So if this is a really detailed piece, I might not be able to complete it for a few weeks, which is, you know, unfortunate and not how I usually do business, but…”

“I understand,” Dean said, feeling every bit as sheepish as Paige had seemed, “I just want something small. In and out.”

There was a moment where everyone fell silent and just looked at one another. Dean could see how tired Roman was, and he felt bad. Paige could obviously tell, too, as she gnawed on her bottom lip.

Surprisingly, it was Lita who broke the silence, here head popping up behind the counter. “I’m sorry,” she said, “Did you say Matt Hardy?”

“Know him?” 

Lita rolled her eyes, “Wish I didn’t. Boyfriend from way back when. He’s been harassing me on social media ever since those watercolors got popular.”

“What,” said the chubby artist from his chair, still blatantly ignoring his crying client, “Another one?”

“Fuck off, Kevin,” replied man bun - or rather, presumably, Punk - casually, his expression souring even more when his client gasped at his language.

“Sounds like we’ll have to get a restraining order,” Roman said seriously, “Thanks for saying something, Lita. I’ll make sure he won’t bother you here.”

Lita breathed a sigh of relief before looking back down at her client, who was peering up at her curiously from her facedown position on her chair.

“Nice work,” Paige commented, taking in the angel wing tramp stamp as she leans over the counter to give Lita a hug.

“Thanks,” Lita responded with a smile, “Gonna work an irridescent rainbow overlay onto them, I think it’s going to look great when it’s done. Should only take another session or two. Well, back to work!”

Roman shook his head as Lita disappeared behind the counter once more, “Paige, if you would call the police department and see what arrangements we need to make to place that order? I’ll take care of…. this customer.”

“Dean,” Dean corrected him, not unkindly, stretching out a hand to shake, “Dean Ambrose.”

Roman took the hand in a firm grip, “Roman Reigns,” he responded, and Dean laughed.

“Name of the place makes a lot more sense now,” Dean explained, “When I first got here, I was worried it was some kind of undercover BDSM joint.”

“Well,” Paige interjected, “You haven’t seen the piercing room yet.” 

Roman simply waved her off and led Dean to his workspace in the back right corner, “So, Dean,” he said conversationally, “What can I do for you today?”

Dean shrugged his leather jacket off and slung it across the back of the chair. He’d worn just a tank top because he already decided where he wanted his tattoo, just not what he wanted it to be. He brushed his fingers over his right bicep, “Just something simple here.”

“Okay,” Roman said slowly, and Dean had to remind himself that Roman had to size him up as part of his job, and was most definitely not checking him out, “But what?”

“That’s the thing,” Dean said, casually glancing over the framed tracer paper that lined the walls, “I don’t really know yet.”

Roman was quiet for a few moments then, getting his gun and some ink ready. Dean knew he didn’t want color coming in here, but he paused upon seeing the jar of red ink. Something with red in it would actually be pretty cool. A heart would be too cliche. He didn’t want an animal or anything too detailed. Finally, he saw it, small and pressed into a recent tracer sheet with a triforce and several Harry Potter references on it.

“That’s the one,” he said, pointing, and Roman looked up and all but scoffed.

“You sure?” Roman asked, hesitation clear in his voice, but Dean nodded, his mind all made up.

“Only,” he says, “Do you think you could make it a little more detailed? I’d like the actual symbol to be red and outlined with black, and sort of… jagged looking, I don’t know.”

To his surprise, Roman nodded thoughtfully and got out another sheet of tracer paper. Dean sat down and watched him work, sketching it out for about ten minutes before sliding the paper over to Dean’s pine of vision. “Something like that?” He asked.

Dean nodded, “That’s perfect.”

Roman seemed to grin involuntarily at that before getting back up and crossing the room to wash his hands. He was still smirking as he sat back down, pulling on Latex gloves. “You know,” he says softly, as he rolls his stool closer to Dean, filling the gun with black ink, “This will probably hurt.”

“I think I can handle it,” Dean said, cocking an eyebrow at him.

“It’s not that I think you can’t,” Roman said evenly, resting his hand on Dean’s bicep as he leaned his chair back a bit, “It’s just that here, you’ve got a lot of muscle and not a lot of fat.”

Dean’s expression only deepened, “You trying to say I’m ripped? Because I’m flattered, Roman, but you’re like twice my size.”

“Size is relative,” Roman said dismissively, his tone more flirtatious than it had any right to be, “And so is pain. I’m just saying. Some people feel more pain in their fatty areas, some more so in bony areas, some more so where they’re more muscular. Just want you to be prepared. Don’t want you crying on me like Kevin’s new friend over there.”

Without meaning to let it happen, Dean’s tongue flicked over his bottom lip. It was more of a nervous tic than an act of flirtation, but he caught Roman watching the gesture a little too closely, and hey, it might as well have been an act of flirtation, too. “Oh, I’m prepared,” he said in a low voice, tipping his head back and closing his eyes as if enjoying a relaxing spa day. “Do your worst, Reigns.”

Roman sounded much too far away as he muttered, “Fine. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Then there was a click, and the familiar whir of the tattoo gun. Roman’s hand was loose but firm around the back of Dean’s bicep, and Dean took a deep breath, Roman giving a slight reassuring squeeze before letting the needle touch his skin.

And oh, it hurt. 

It hurt worse than Dean was willing to admit, if only because he sincerely couldn’t remember his Wonder Crunch tattoo or the coverup OR the stick-and-poke smiley face he’d gotten on his back in high school hurting half as bad as this was. 

Still, he made himself take deep breaths, made himself unfurrow his brows and relax every muscle up to his right bicep. He started, and he didn’t want to back out now.

“Told you,” Roman said from somewhere above him, laughter apparent in his voice.

“Shut up,” Dean replied mirthlessly, throwing his free arm over his eyes. “Maybe you were right, but that doesn’t mean I’m not gonna see it through.”

“Attaboy,” Roman said, and his tone - somewhere between encouraging and fond - had Dean genuinely relaxing all the way. He tried not to think about the part of him that was turned on by the way Roman was taking care of him. With another deep breath and a sigh, he forced his libido back and melted into a trance for at least the next few minutes.

“Outine’s done,” was the next thing he heard, along with the abrupt silence when Roman stopped the tattoo gun. He felt Roman wiping the excess ink away and tried not to focus on the press of the other man’s fingers.

“Time for the red?” He asked.

“Time for the red,” Roman replied, “But first, open your eyes.”

Dean did as he was told, and all he could  notice for a few embarrassing moments was Roman hovering over him, brow furrowed with concern. 

Then he noticed the mirror in Roman’s hands and angled his head so he can see the outline work. It was great. Jagged around the edges and identical to the sketch Roman did for him. It’d probably look great without the red, but Dean was no quitter. He raised his free hand and gave a weak thumbs up. “Time for the red,” he repeated.

He didn’t close his eyes that time, though. Kept them open. Watched Roman work. He would focus on Dean’s arm for a few minutes before his eyes would flicker back up to Dean’s face. Then, he’d look away again, each time more perturbed than the last. Finally, he held Dean’s gaze for a moment before stopping the gun.

“You okay?” He asked, dabbing at the excess ink with a paper towel.

“Yeah,” Dean said, his voice cracking despite itself. Truthfully, he was trying not to think about having all that attention on his body without the pretense of getting inked up, but he was obviously failing miserably. Still, how do you just out and say that? You don’t. So he didn’t. 

“Have you eaten anything in the past few hours?” Roman asked, sounding genuinely concerned.

Dean thought about it for a moment, “Well,” he said after serious consideration, “I had breakfast?”

Roman sighed and rolled his eyes getting up from his stool and returning a moment later with a can of coke. “This is the best I can do for now. But in the future, a general rule,” he says chidingly, “Whenever you’re sticking needles in your body, you might want to make sure your blood pressure doesn’t make an astronomical drop. Last thing I need is a lawsuit because you pass out on me.”

Dean was more of a Pepsi guy, but he didn't  complain, popping the can open and drinking half of it in one go. “Sorry,” he muttered.

“You’re not the first not to use common sense, and you won’t be the last,” Roman shrugged. “Just a couple more minutes and I’ll be done. We need to get some food in you.”

Keeping comments about how that isn’t the only thing he’d like in him at bay, Dean just nodded and let Roman resume his work. Maybe it was the soda, maybe it was Roman’s concern, but this time, each prick of the needle didn’t hurt.  In fact, it felt quite good. He had no idea where all this unbridled lust for this guy he met a half hour or so was coming from, but his gentleness wasn’t helping, nor was that oh so good but oh so bad press of the tattoo gun against his skin. 

Fidgeting in his seat a bit, Dean sighed and squeezed his eyes shut again, realizing all too late that he was hard. For how long he had no idea, but as his thigh brushed against it, it was most indisputably there.

“Shit,” he hissed, and Roman paused again, much to Dean’s frustration. “No, keep going, I can’t…”

“Dean.”

The firm tone left Dean no choice. He opened his eyes and grimaced up at Roman.

“It’s okay,” he said, “We can… we can talk about this in a few minutes, alright? But just… just let me finish, okay? Relax. Don’t worry about it.”

Dean nodded and took another deep breath. No point in postponing out the pointless and blatantly untrue 'everyone gets boners when they get tattoos, nothing to be ashamed of’ speech he was destined to get, after all.

A few torturous minutes later, Roman stopped the gun and cleaned the excess ink away a final time, going through an obviously scripted speach about how to clean and disinfect a tattoo without weakening the ink. He wrapped Dean’s arm in gauze before helping him stand upright. Dean, embarassed and turned on beyond all logic, tried to step towards the register at the front of the store, but was instead led backwards, Roman’s hand gentle against his hip.

They rounded a corner and Roman unlocked a door, Dean wondering what the hell was about to happen. Was Roman just too embarrassed to publicly give him the boner lecture? Was Roman pissed?

Apparently, as Roman closed the door and backed Dean into it, neither of those things were on the agenda.

“If I’m reading this wrong, just tell me,” Roman said urgently, reaching between them to run his fingers over the bulge in Dean’s jeans, “Tell me to stop and I will, alright? I’m not usually like this, but you’re just so… I wish you could’ve seen your face, Dean. Like every time I touched you it was the best feeling in the world. I couldn’t…”

Dean rocked his hips against Roman’s hand for a few hazy seconds before reaching out and grabbing him by the hips, pulling him close, feeling an erection that was very much not his own press into his thigh. “Oh my god,” he groaned, immediately reaching for Roman’s belt buckle, getting it undone in record time. “Can I touch you?” He asked, admittedly a little late as he was already sliding a hand into Roman’s underwear. To his end, Roman nodded emphatically.

“Just dont use the arm I just… oh shit, Dean. I don’t usually do this, I swear to god,” Roman said resting his forehead against Dean’s and looking down between them, watching Dean stroke him.

“So you’ve mentioned,” Dean replied dryly. “I don’t either. Ever. I don’t know what the fuck… Doesn’t matter, though. Right now, I just wanna see you cum, Roman.”

Roman shuddered, “I want to,” he said, thrusting hard into Dean’s open fist, “But I want to see what you look like when you do more.” 

Experimentally, Roman reached up, grabbed a handful of Dean’s hair, and gave it a firm tug. Dean’s head tipped back, his mouth opened and he let out and involuntary moan, his hips quickening against Roman’s thigh and his hand quickening around Roman’s cock. “Fuck,” he hissed when he could catch his breath, “Do that again.”

Roman did, leaning forward to gain better leverage and so that he could whisper in Dean’s ear. “The things I would do to you if we had time right now, if we had a proper bed, god, I’d make that face when I was out there working on you a thousand times more blissed out, I’d make you scream my name.”

“We can work on that later,” Dean retorted, leaning in to capture Roman’s lips in an easily reciprocated kiss. Their teeth clacked and their tongues were everywhere at first, too frantic, too needy. But they soon slowed into a rhythm, rocking against each other as they kissed deeply.

After just a few minutes, Dean’s body tensed, breathy whimpers found between every kiss. He opened his thighs more to accommodate Roman’s more urgent thrusting, and undid his own pants to stroke himself against Roman, their cocks sliding together creating deliciously slick friction. 

“Close?” Roman asked, and Dean nodded. Roman tightened his hold on Dean’s hair, pulled harshly, and bit down on Dean’s bottom lip, sending him crashing suddenly over the edge with a rather loud “Fuck! Yes!”

Roman wasn’t too far behind him, his kisses trailing down to Dean’s shoulder where he muffled his own cry of completion.

They both pressed their weight against the door for a few moments, too euphoric to move. Finally, Dean laughed, “I guess that’s one way to adress this.”

“Is it though?” Roman said seriously, “I mean… was that enough for you? Because if it is, that’s fine, but if it’s not, I have absolutely no problem taking you home with me tonight and proving that I’m capable of all those things I promised you. And more.”

“Christ,” Dean groaned. “I’m not gonna lie, that’s tempting. Why don’t you buy me some pizza while I think about it.”

“Are you asking me to have pizza delivered here while you think about it? Or are you asking me to ask you out on a date?”

“The latter, obviously,” Dean said, blushing a bit despite himself. “I’m pretty sure everyone you work with and a few innocent customers know what I sound like when I orgasm now, so that’s…. something I’d like to avoid as much as possible for the time being.”

“Shit,” Roman hissed, “I forgot there were people put there.”

“I’m that good, huh?” Dean said smugly, laughing as Roman could do nothing but glare at him.

“Let’s get out of here, this way so we don’t have to talk to anyone,” Roman said, gesturing at the back door of what was apparently his office. “We’ll get some food and we can hash the details out later.”

“Are you driving?”

“Do you have your car keys?”

Dean remembered his leather jacket, draped over the back of his seat in the parlor, “No. Don’t have my wallet either.”

“So I’ll drive,” Roman said, guiding Dean towards his black Jeep, “And I’ll pay.”

“Can I blow you while you drive?” Dean asked, laughing at the wistfulness on Roman’s face at the prospect.

“While I would like that,” he finally says evenly, “I’d also like to keep us alive, at least until we can get some pizza.”

“Fair enough,” Dean replied as he settled into the passenger seat,  “I like the way you think, Roman.”

“I’d return the sentiment, but you are a grown ass man in his late twenties that just got the anarchy symbol tattooed on his body.”

Dean looked down at his arm, still wrapped in gauze, and couldn’t even muster the energy to be embarassed. “I think it’s cool, but you know…Touche.”


End file.
